Furor Normannicus

[Scavenius]

Great update again. I just say women are evil I bet Yolanda kept the silver for her self to buy cloth and shoes thinking free at last

[Eams]

"Poor Raoul"? He was a wife-beating, peasant-murdering bastard!

Zuhayra has been deluding herself for how long now, 40 years? Geraud is different from her because the Catholic church is most likely strengthened longterm by the expansion of Christianity (such as it is here) and the concurrent weakening of Islam (such as it is here). Still, I'm suspecting Zuhayra for Raoul's murder, if only because Yolanda seems to be the sort of deranged girl who can only love a man who beats her often and brutally.

When Bohemond dies, he'll probably leave his heir an overextended realm plagued by poor relations with both the church and its Christian neighbours and with an angry and sizeable Muslim minority and revanchist Muslim neighbours. Unless he oversees the decline himself, which would be rather nice.

Now, how has poor Serlo raised his boy? He'd be a damn fool if he hasn't told him often about just what an insane and vile family he belongs to. Hopefully, the kid will grow up to have Serlo's chivalry and Bohemond's plotting mind, though the first controls the second and ensures that it's used with some discretion (which would be a first for the de Hautevilles).
Indeed, it would be sort of poetic if Serlo's son ended up accomplishing what he wasn't man enough to do and cleanse the de Hauteville family of Bohemond's spawn before they tear it apart. And Bohemond is a tyrant who has raised family of idiots and psychopaths and who's only excuse is that he wasn't hugged enough as a child. Oy vey...
But since this is CK, Richard will probably end up a cowardly, lazy, lustful drunk with a bad case of intestinal worms.

[RossN]

Zuhayra has been deluding herself for how long now, 40 years? Geraud is different from her because the Catholic church is most likely strengthened longterm by the expansion of Christianity (such as it is here) and the concurrent weakening of Islam (such as it is here).

Exactly. We tend to think of Bohemond as indestructable but even he is not immortal and Geraud can console himself that future de Hauteville monarchs are unlikely to be as impious - certainly Gausbert the immediate heir seems genuinely faithful. Geraud's actions are pragmatic, even cynical but they are by no means delusional.

I've never been sympathetic towards Zuhayra but I do feel for her a little over the sheer joylessness of her life. Her life's work has not only been in vain, it has actively contributed to greater evil. Zuhayra can only cling to her delusions - that in the face of all evidence she can somehow help her fellow Moslems - because the alternative is too awful to bear.

Yolanda on the other hand... I think we have to recall that unpleasant though her late husband seems to have been she is by far the most monstorous character in this story. How much blood does she have on her hands? I don't believe her crocodile tears for a moment.

I'm not sure if I missed it or not, but was this another childless marriage for Yolanda?

[Eams]

Exactly. We tend to think of Bohemond as indestructable but even he is not immortal and Geraud can console himself that future de Hauteville monarchs are unlikely to be as impious - certainly Gausbert the immediate heir seems genuinely faithful. Geraud's actions are pragmatic, even cynical but they are by no means delusional.

And nor do future rulers even need to be more pious, it's the combination of impiousness and a strong will which has made Bohemond such a "success" in his relation to the church. Perhaps the popes (none of which will be a John XXIII) would even prefer a weak-willed and sceptic King of Naples over a strong and pious one?

I've never been sympathetic towards Zuhayra but I do feel for her a little over the sheer joylessness of her life. Her life's work has not only been in vain, it has actively contributed to greater evil. Zuhayra can only cling to her delusions - that in the face of all evidence she can somehow help her fellow Moslems - because the alternative is too awful to bear.

Precisely. Whatever she might have thought of her apostate husband, and she certainly did think quite a number of hateful things about him, he never contributed to having a Christian tyrant come within striking distance of Damascus, Jerusalem and Mecca.

Yolanda on the other hand... I think we have to recall that unpleasant though her late husband seems to have been she is by far the most monstorous character in this story. How much blood does she have on her hands? I don't believe her crocodile tears for a moment.

Well... let's see... there's that Italian family, and the Greek one. Possibly an entire ship and it's crew, and maybe a couple of husbands. Has she started any wars?

I'm not sure if I missed it or not, but was this another childless marriage for Yolanda?

I'd love if it she had a daughter who rebelled against her mother by becoming generous, loving and kind.

[RGB]

Oh, this is back?

---

So the Normans are on fire and conquering everywhere like demons, but for some reason it doesn't look like the future is secure

[newtype0083]

Interesting, to say the least. I'm no great one for intrigue and subterfuge, so I'll leave others to speculate on the myriad possibilities raised by the capture and failed ransom of Yolanda's late husband. Though the fact that Yolanda put the ransom attempt in the hands of Zuhayra makes me wonder about her sincerity. If she really wanted it done properly (i.e. husband brought back alive) she'd have done it herself.

The campaign in Egypt seems to be going relatively well, if the stuff of legends like the earlier one with Serlo's triumphant victory in the desert. What are Bohemund's plans for the final disposition of the Nile Valley and Delta? Will he emulate Augustus Caesar and keep it for himself as a private province? Granted, Bohemund doesn't have a Senate to worry about, nor an imperial capital city to feed, but that much surplus grain and manpower would really set him above almost everyone else in the Mediterranean. He'd be near equal in power, if not status, to the "Roman" emperor and the Seljuk Sultan, not to mention far beyond any other Christian in the western Med. Provided he can hold onto Egypt.

I'll leave my strategic commentary off now, to let others have their turn. Oh, and nice job as usual.

[Saithis]

Guiscard! You're back! I missed you!

[The_Guiscard]

Well, dear readers, the events leading up to the death of Raoul de Macon had many of you puzzling. I myself know how I want to have the game events represented in the story, and so I “know” who is behind the loss of the silver. What I don’t know is wether you prefer to be enlightened or to have an explanation of your own. So, if the vast majority of commenters is going to clamour for my take on the events, I’ll render it – if not, then not.

On to you individually!

General_BT
„Bohemond the Great“, hm? Well, the monograph I am citing from in some updates is already called “Bohemond. Giant Among Men.”

And as to a theme music – first of all, thanks for the offer. Then I am of two minds. I often find music accompanying texts distracting, especially when it does not closely conform to my own views of what would be fitting; with the AARs on these boards accompanied by a score I never ever listen to it for even a second. But then, having a theme music for Furor Normannicus, even without having it actually accompany the posts, would be totally cool.

So I guess I’ll say yes and take you up on your kind offer!

jordakelf
Wow, still not back in the lurker’s corner? Great!

As to your speculations about Zuhayra, Yolanda and Raoul I shall – at least for now – not comment any further. But a beatified Bohemond? Well, maybe if he lives long enough and goes on to liberate Jerusalem after all – who knows what might happen?

Enewald
Yeah, when I declared war upon the Fatimids, all his vassals did in turn declare war upon me. Some did soon ask for peace, and I took up those on their offer in whose land I wasn’t interested.

The_Archduke
If you really want to know, say so – if enough do so, I will tell.

Clydwich
Sound theory, there. But again, if you want to know what really went on, speak up.

demokractic, erm, no, demokratik, erm, no, demokrak, oh, sod it!
You asked for it, now you’ve got – you’re the only one to blame.

And thanks for the praise.

Qorten
Well, some girls just like to play rough, I s’ppose. Problem is, wheter Yolanda likes to be manhandled or not, she certainly likes to dish it out.

Devin Perry
Yep, her third one by now. Gameplay-wise, she’s one jinxed girl.

Scavenius
Thanks for the praise, much appreciated. As is your renewed readership.

Eams
Now that’s the type of Norman-thrashing comment I’ve come to expect of you. We’ve talked about this previously, how Furor Normannicus reflects my bleak view on the personalities and – necessary – character traits of those who strive to attain power and to hold on to it, even if they think that it is for some greater good. You won’t find many likeable characters here; at the very least, people here are cynical. It’s not something I’m working on consciously, it just flows naturally from my keyboard.

Can’t really disagree with your analysis of Zuhayra and Géraud, btw.

RossN
Your’s is another analysis I have to wholeheartedly agree with., about Zuhayra as well as Géraud and Yolanda, who indeed is a veritable monster. She’s lacking even vestiges of a conscience and actually delights in causing pain and suffering. She’s death.

And being death she can’t of course give life. It has indeed been her third childless marriage so far.

RGB
Yes, this is back, and it comes with a spezial apology to you for vanishing from our little project back then.

newtype0083
Thanks for the praise. As to Bohemond’s plans concerning Egypt, well, he’ll certainly hold on to the truly rich provinces like Cairo and especially Alexandria himself, but he intends to spread the burden of ruling the poorer and more remote areas to other members of his family. He’s quite rich, so he will be able to quickly create many ducal titles, and he will then give those out – taken together, this will boost both his prestige and his reputation.

And it will, for the now, not really reduce the economical powerbase Egypt represents. He has many minor sons, and he intends to enfief them meaning that in reality it will be him who rules and gets the revenue.

So yeah, I guess that if he can pull off his plans, he will be up with the best.

Saithis
Thanks for your kind words, m’lady! And a special apology for vanishing from our writing project to you as well.

And thanks to all of you out there for reading this, and a second thanks on top to those who bother to comment.

[Eams]

What I don’t know is wether you prefer to be enlightened or to have an explanation of your own. So, if the vast majority of commenters is going to clamour for my take on the events, I’ll render it – if not, then not.

I'd sooner eat a live hamster.

Eams
Now that’s the type of Norman-thrashing comment I’ve come to expect of you. We’ve talked about this previously, how Furor Normannicus reflects my bleak view on the personalities and – necessary – character traits of those who strive to attain power and to hold on to it, even if they think that it is for some greater good. You won’t find many likeable characters here; at the very least, people here are cynical. It’s not something I’m working on consciously, it just flows naturally from my keyboard.

Can’t really disagree with your analysis of Zuhayra and Géraud, btw.

I'm glad that I can live up to your expectations.
Anyway, I do think that you don't pay enough attention to the fact that quite a few characters in this story will have been born into power by the time Serlo finally kicks the bucket. Indeed, you're one of only a few writers on this forum who could handle a character who is fundamentally decent (and Serlo's kid appears an ideal candidate), but perpetually compromised by the struggle for power.
A more reflective version of Serlo, if you will.

[The_Guiscard]

Chapter Thirty-Five: In Which A Duke Meets With Old Friends

Finally, spring was coming to North Africa. It had been a long and cold winter – or that’s only me, more likely, Serlo thought. He was not unaware to the fact that he had recently become always so very cold and so famished for heat. That was why he had had the table and the chairs for himself and his son set up in the open, on the lawn of the residence’s Almond Garden. The Almond Garden had long been Serlo’s favourite one, small, private, and secluded. And with the trees in full bloom, it was twice as lovely. The Muhammadans knew a thing or two about architecture and gardening, there was no denying that.

Almond blossom

Serlo returned his attention from the warmth of the sun and the pale beauty of the perfect blossoms to the matters at hand. He had come to impress his son with lessons of statecraft – preposterously! As if he knew anything of statecraft!

“I hope the King will go on to liberate Jerusalem”, Richard said, his gaze on the crude map of North Africa, Egypt and Palestine Serlo had sketched and placed on the low rosewood table between the two of them. “I have nothing against the infidels, but it’s just not right that the holy city should not be in Christian hands.”

Serlo sighed inwardly. Fancies of youth! “No”, he said with emphasis, “no. You know our duchy, and you know Tunis, but you do not know Egypt. Don’t underestimate Egypt. It’s huge and ancient – very ancient, and very alien. The Egyptians are not like the Berbers of our lands, and it already took me well over a decade to pacify them. It will be many, many decades if Egypt is ours – if ever it will be.”

“But didn’t it fall easily enough? I mean, it took the King less than twenty months to take all of it. He’s marching his armies up and down as he pleases, right into the legendary lands of the black men?”

The Egyptian war theatre by spring of 1115. Occupied lands are hatched.

“And that’s exactly it”, Serlo said. “Egypt is huge. Huge. It’s fifteen hundred miles from Alexandria to Nubia. One thousand and five hundred. That’s – what? Like Normandy to Rome and back again, or some such. Almost three months of marching for an army. And we Normans are few, so very few. We are spread thin, and the King is spreading us ever thinner.”

Richard cocked his head, the wheels behind his intelligent eyes Serlo loved do much turning. “So you don’t think that the rich prizes of Alexandria and Cairo were worth it? That even the delta alone should not have been conquered, if not all of Egypt?”

Serlo hesitated for a moment. No need holding back his thoughts, the boy had to be prepared to rule – time was running out on Serlo. “No”, he said firmly. “It wouldn’t even have done to conquer just the delta, or just Alexandria, for that matter. You see, Egypt is one, a unity. It is walled in and walled off by deserts and the sea on all sides, an entity apart from the rest. You either have all of Egypt, or nothing. If you hold on to just a part of it, you’ll never have peace. Now we Normans have the strength to conquer them – if the King leads us, we have the strength to conquer anybody – but we do not have the strength to rule them. Our lands already are too large, we are too few, and they are too many.”

Serlo paused to take a sip of water cooled with snow brought from the distant Atlas Mountains while his son pondered what he had said. How long since he had seen real snow, its masses smothering the land? No matter; he continued: “Think of how the Egyptians everywhere are rising up against the King. Sure, Charles da Romano and Prince Gausbert are putting down the armed revolts, but for every one they are putting down, two new ones spring up.”

Serlo leaned forward, put his face closer to his thoughtful son to impress the importance of what he was going to say: “Make no mistake. These people, they hate us. They hate us with a cold and implacable enmity that’s in their blood. We casth them down, we took their lands, took their freedom, took their pride. We plundered their holy places, raped their wives and daughters, stuck their children on our lances, hanged their priests, stole their riches and made slaves of them. What of it that we try to rule them fairly now? Do you think that can make them forget what we did? Would you? They smile at us and bow deep, but deep down inside, they just want to slit our throats.”

“Do not trust them, Richard. Or rather, trust them as long as long as you’re strong and don’t trust them when you’re weak. Deep down inside, maybe without consciously knowing, they are all just biding their time. They may even have assumed the true faith, but it’s only skin deep. Don’t you think they wouldn’t instantly return to the religion of their fathers if it wasn’t for us lording it over them? When I’m gone, you’ll have to be strong, because if you’re weak they will sweep us from the lands we have stolen from them.”

Richard remained silent for a moment, chewing on his father’s words. Soon, he would be fourteen. Serlo thought it divine grace that he had against al hope been allowed so many years with his boy. Presently, Richard looked up and asked: “But isn’t the King conquering Egypt showing just this strength to the infidels?”

“Yes, of course, the strength of Hercules and Achilles, but try to look beyond that. He’s wearing us out, overstretching us, spreading us too thin. The strength the King shows today will be the weakness of tomorrow. And they, they are biding their time. They will not forget, and all it takes for us is to slip just once.”

Serlo was not happy to rob his son of the romantic fancies of youth, of dreams of conquest and glory. He himself had had them at his, and it was them that had them set on the path that had ultimatley, long after he had abandoned all these follies, brought to where he was today. But soon, maybe in a year, maybe in two, Richard would be the Duke, and so he needed to grow up fast. No use keeping the deadly danger inherent in Bohemond’s ambition secret from him.

All his life, save in one hour of weakness, Serlo had been a faithful servant of his lieges, first Robert Guiscard, then Bohemond. He had sworn holy oaths to uphold his lords and to be true to them, and even if he had not always been happy with either of his lords, an oath was an oath. He had impressed his son with the importance of loyalty, how without it, all came crushing down and dissolved into a chaos; the current state in Germany was ample proof of it, if proof was needed at all.

Serlo had been faithful, always, because it was the only way. But recently, he was not so sure anymore. Bohemond was King by divine right, ordained by the Lord Almighty, true, but did that really mean that he had to be followed unconditionally, everywhere, even when there was a chasm ahead?

He was not so certain anymore.

* * *

Serlo deflected the swing of the mace with his shield, letting the brass head skid of its surface, and brought around his horseman’s axe into the ghulam’s swarthy face, leaving a bloody pulp were once there had been human features. Limp as a rag doll, the enemy fell sidewiays from his horse and down into the trampled dirt, and for one moment, Serlo was free of enemies to survey the mill of the battle all around him.

The fields were swarming with Muhammadan warriors, and most of the dead covering the ground were Normans.

How could it have all come crushing down so swiftly? Bohemond had finally overreached. The rebellions had spread to all of North Africa, sapping the realm’s strength, and then Mukhtar Yaseen had come with the great army he had assembled in Palestine, and the Hammadid king al-Nasir had also declared war and invaded from the west. Battle after battle had been lost, and Serlo had watched so many die – even King Robert lay slain. It wasn’t a war anymore, it was a Norman rout. Sicily was lost, and it was questionable wether Italy could be held against th relentless push of the enemy.

The mill and throng of the battle must have him to its edges, Serlo thought. The clang and shouts and neighing and screams of melee sounded in his ears from somewhere just out of sight, but all around him, there were no combatants – only still fields strewn with the mangled corpses of the fallen, their entrails spilt into the churned mud. There was Humbert d’Alife, transfixed by a broken lance just beneath his collarbone, and over there Renaud de Joigny with his crippled hand, his brains oozing from a deep cleft on his brow.

There were others the Duke recognized as he stumbled on across the field of the slain, his old friend Hoel, who had died with his huge, calloused hands clutching desperately at the guts spilling from his slashed belly, and faithful Count Charles of Djerba, whose corpse had so been pulped by horses’ hooves that it was impossible to still to what might have felled him.

Jolted, Serlo held his wanderings across the field of the slain, and the sound of battle in his ears grew dim and subsided. There on the ground, right before him, lay the giant form of his cousin, slain by a vicious axe blow to his chest. Bohemond! The King! It couldn’t be! How could a warrior as mighty as he have been slain?

A sob wrenched free from Serlo’s throat and he threw back his head, squeezed shut his eyes. If Bohemon was dead, what hope was there left for the Normans? If he had not been able to stem the infidels’ onslaught, what other man could hope to? It could not be.

Once more, Serlo dared to open his eyes, look at the form on the ground, hoping against hope that his tired sight had played a trick on him and that it wasn’t after all the King who lay inert at his feet.

He opened his eyes, and opened them ever wider as before, for his gaze fell fully upon a powerful figure coming up to him, treading with neglectful disdain on and over Muhammadan corpses, a huge shaggy wolfhound right behind him. It couldn’t be – or could it? Serlo’s head was swimming.

“Nephew!”, the Guiscard bawled as he swaggered up, the blood-drenched mud squishing with his every step. “We have won the day! Palermo’s as good as ours! Do you already have an idea of our own fallen?”

“My … my lord, I …”, Serlo was at loss for words. King Robert? The Guiscard? His uncle? He forced his gaze painfully down to where Bohemond lay, fortifying himself to impart the dreadful news to the King, but where he had thought to recognize Bohemond, a Muhammadan emir was lying dead.

All around, the ground was thick with slain infidels.

* * *

Taking two of the shallow steps with every stride, Hélie bounded down the stairs to the courtyard. The arrival of his father had been announced, it was not just his filial duty to make him welcome, but also his wish – he had not seen his father in almost a year.

Sure, he could long have returned to Djerba and the comital court, but that was terrible backwater compared to Tripoli, and Hélie reckoned that he would have to spend enough time in this particular stretch of desert once he would succeed his father. And then the Duke had asked him to stay on as his squire even after the campaign in Egypt, when Hélie would in truth have have been old enough to go his own way. But when your liege asked something of you, it was not easy to deny it.

And then of course it was not nothing to serve as the personal squire to the widely famous Duke Serlo de Hauteville.

Hélie emerged onto the sun-drenched outer ward of the fortified ducal palace at Triploi just as his father’s party came thundering through its open main gate, the horses with sweaty sides and unsure treads, the men with tired, hollow faces. At the head of the half dozen hard-bitten, dusty men was his father, sharply reining in his trembling roan gelding. As he vaulted from the saddle, still springy even well into his fifth decade, Count Charles made out his son and called to him: “How’s the Duke? Are we late?”

“No, you’re not late, he still lives”, Hélie replied as he greated his father with a short, tight embrace, taken in his reek of horse and sweat and dust. Billows of yellow sand rose from where he padded his father’s back and shoulders. “But he is going fast now. The day before yesterday he’s been shriven and received the sacraments. He has not talked any sense or recognized anybody for two days.”

“And young Richard?”

Hélie roared at the servants scurrying around to bring water for the Count before answering: “The Duchess has already formed a regency council, with herself and the Duke’s advisors on it – you know, Acerenza, Salim, and al-Rahman.”

“A regency? Richard’s fourteen, a man already. Why a regency?”

A native Berber retainer hurried up to Hélie’s father with a pitcher and cup of copper, both brimming with cool water. The Count ignored the cup offered him, reached for the pitcher and tossed back his head gulping from it, rivulets of water escaping the corners of his mouth and cutting grooves into the dirt caking his face.

“That’s why Richard himself will have a seat on the councl, with equal say”, Hélie explained. “And it’s supposed to only be for a year or so, just to guide over the transition.”

“Fair enough”, his father said. Without looking back, he thrust the water pitcher behind him, where it was received by the parched men of his retinue. “Let’s not waste any more time. I want to pay my respects to my liege for one last time.”

* * *

Feeling ill at ease, Serlo went through the stately and maybe even effeminate motions of the Greek courtly dance. He found joy in the caroles he had danced as a boy back in Normandy, but the contrived motions of the Greek dance felt awkward and even unmanly to him. Still, Helene loved them so much, and for her sake, he had these dances played at his court and suffered going through their silly figures.

Helene looked positively radiant at his side, happy with the merriment of the feast, glowing with the exertion of the dance, torches and fireplace lending a coppery sheen to her fine golden hair. Serlo had been very lucky with the marriage his uncle had arranged for him – he had gotten a beautiful and tender wife, and once they started to understand each other’s languages something like respect, fondness and maybe even love had flowered between them. More than his charges as a liege, it had been the responsibility for his wife that had really matured him and made him a true man at last.

The dance ended, and Serlo led his lady back to the high table. His one regret was that she was now buried so far away, that he had left her in Capua when he had moved to Africa – he would have liked to visit her now and then. And he bemoaned that he never had attained this kind of intimacy with Blanche. But then she had been much too young for him when he had married her, him being her senior by almost thirty years. An old man had taken her youth, and the old man had always felt this acutely – ever it had stood between them and prevented their ever getting close to each other.

Serlo looked at the woman sitting next to him at the high table and graced her with one of his rare smiles. In her way, Blanche was not uncomely – if only there wasn’t this austere cast to her mien that seemed to ill hide a thousand different worries and fears. But maybe it was being chained to a husband older than her own father that was adding to her natural somberness. In any case, she was a good, if overly caring mother to his children.

In a sudden surge of affection, Serlo leaned across to her and planted a kiss on Blanche’s narrow lips. To his surprise, she returned the kiss not coyly, but with eagerness, even with passion, entwining her arms tightly around him, pressing her delightful body close to him. Serlo’s blood was rushing and throbbing in his temples as he felt the exciting pressure of her ample bosom and breathed in her heady scent. He ran his rough hand down her neck, savouring the creamy smoothness of her skin, cupping one heavy breast, running the hand over her taut belly and deeper still, her naked body squirming and arching against his…

An almond petal had settled on Sancha’s hair, a spot of snowy white nestled in velvety blackness, and Serlo brushed it away, running his fingers through her thick tresses. For the moment, there was no place but this and no time but the present, no husbands and wifes, no oaths of loyalty and fidelity, and no duty, and he was happy just lying with Sancha in the grass, the almond blossoms falling like snow all around them. She was so very beautiful, almost painfully so.

When he heard voices, it wasn’t easy for Serlo to wrench his gaze away from Sancha, to Helene and Blanche approaching hand in hand, happy, smiling at him. He must be dreaming – but if he was, then it was a good dream, he decided. Sancha joined hands with Helene and Blanche, and singing, the three of them began to dance a merry carole, there beneath the almond trees.

Serlo was laughing with pure joy.

* * *

The Duchess looked up from the three men sitting opposite her and out the hall’s open collonades. On the other side of this courtyard, her husband lay dying. There had never ben any love between her and the old man, just mutual respect and maybe some kind of silent, distant affection, but now that he was going, she still felt sadness and loss at him leaving her. But more than anything else, she felt panic. Richard was still young, and it would be her woho would have to guide Leptis Magna through the immdiate future – and she didn’t feel up to the task.

Blanche of Rennes had no delsions about herself. All her life, she had relied on others to look out and provide for her, first her father, then her husband. To her, the wild world outside her well-ordered residence was a bewildering place of pitfalls and dangers, filled with predatory people out for their own gain – and now, she would have to navigate the reefs of the world to ensure her son’s legacy.

But at least she was not alone. There were the men who had already aided her husband, whom her husband had trusted implicitly. But her husband had been strong, and she wasn’t, and the three noblemen knew it well. By nature, all men are rapacious predators, and a Norman knight more than any other – Blanche was unsure of the men on her regency council.

There was the duchy’s marshal, old Henry d’Acerenza, longer in her husband’s services than any other of the trio, true, gruff and straightforward, to be trusted implicitly, but already showing signs of dotage and maybe not being fully up to his tasks anymore. Then there was Henry of Salim, a man hard to fathom, torn between a deep piety and much baser instincts, for which he used to regularly atone with self-inflicted flagellation. And finally Lord Roger, whom the infidels called al-Rahman, deeply learned, with a sharp and inquisitive mind, but lusting after her, if she was not entirely mistaken. He would have to be watched, lest he try something – and so would Henry Salim. If only Marshal d’Acerenza wasn’t as old and failin in his faculties!

The vagaries of the future were so many. If only the war with the Fatimids would come to an end! But the King was pushing into Sinai, allegedly not to conquer Palestine, but ony to secure the access to Egypt and to force Mukhtar Yaseen to come to terms. Or at least that was how Marshal d’Acerenza interpreted Bohemond’s recent movements. If only she could ask her husband, he had always been so savvy about such things – but Serlo had been far, far away in a world of his own for several days now.

And then the troubles in Tunisia! Count Charles of Djerba had brought news from some Berber sheik who had rallied a large band of malcontent infidels around him and was now ranging through Gabes, just off the border of Leptis Magna. And Henry Salim had terrible news from Duke Herman agitating against his royal father, attempting to raise an army, and in his African county of Mahdia of all places! And that wasn’t already enough there were the envoys from Kairwan with their preposterous demands on top of everything else, arriving just when the viceroy of Africa was dying. The King certainly wouldn’t want to grant their request, and her husband wouldn’t have, but she was not so sure. Her council was all against granting it, and so was her son, but if she really did deny them, who might tell what would happen next? Maybe they’d rise up in rebellion, and it would be her regency’s responsibility to quell it – a task sure to exceed her faculties.

Blanche felt like throwing up.

* * *

“Not again”, Serlo shouted in frustration, “Not again! How often do I have to tell you that you mustn’t open yourself up so wide when swinging. You’re not only defenceless against a quick slash, you’re also signalling your intentions to every foe.”

“Sorry, father”, Richard replied. “I try, but I keep forgetting.”

“You’re eight now”, Serlo said. “Time for playing is long past, especially at swords. Not long and you’ll ride into battle. So, again, but this time with cleaner execution.”

Maybe he was too harsh on the boy, Serlo thought as he lifted his heavy wooden practice sword into defensive position. Richard was not bad for his age, and he himself had probably been as clumsy when still a child. But Richard was so young, and he so very old! There was so little time in which to teach him, much too little.

Serlo deflected the blows of his son, with every move lauding, critizising, correcting and sometimes smacking Richard’s padded torso to show him where he was exposing himself. These days, he liked nothing better than spending time with his son, sending away the weapon masters and seeing to his training in person.

There! The boy was again exposing him. This time, Serlo decided, he would club him on the head, maybe then he would finally remember the lesson.

The wooden sword came down hard on the boy’s shoulder, knocking him sideways and sending him sprawling into the grass. Damn! He had hit him too hard, Serlo thought as he bent over him. But what was that? That face glaring up at him from the ground, that angry expression – that was not like his boy at all. It was … it was … like Bohemond! It wasn’t Richard lying at his feet, it was teenaged Bohemond, knocked down by Serlo’s sword! But no, he was mistaken again – it was a grown man lying there, with naked steel in his fist!

He had attacked his King! But why? Why had he done so? He was no traitor! Or was he? Was he a traitor? A man who raised arms against his liege was a traitor, the lowest of the low…

Serlo sank to his knees, his head bowed low, the sword dangling limply from his hand. Bohemond towered over him, a black shadow rising far, far above him, his dark bulk blotting out the sun.

“Look at me”, the King said, “Look at me, damn you! Don’t let your blade hang like that. When I told you that you should not grip it as if you were strangling it I did not mean that your grip should be soft like a girl's.”

Serlo squinted up against the sun shining over the tall form’s massive shoulder. It wasn’t the King at all, it was Serlo’s father standing above him! He was back at home in the Cotentin, and his father was once again teaching him to wield a sword! A sob of joy wrenched free from Serlo’s throat. It had been so long since he had last seen his father, so long. He never knew how much he had missed him.

But wait, wait, something was not quite right. His father? His father?

* * *

The soft murmur of praying from the priests in the corner of the chamber were reassuring to Richard. In life, his father had been a good man, great and virtuous, and the Lord would surely not cleanse him long in the fires of purgatory for what few sins he had had. His father had not been a saint, but it hadn’t been godlessness that had made him lenient to his infidel subjects, like Father Foulques used to imply, but common sense and an affection for all God’s creatures, the wayward no less than the righteous. His father had been a good and pious man, and the Lord would receive him into Heaven. Richard was certain of it.

Seeing his father on his deathbed, fitingly dressed in a simple penitent’s shift, sometimes twitching feebly and murmuring names that meant nothing to him, charred Richard deeply. His father had always seemed so strong, so invincible, bigger than life, sometimes the affectionate father, sometimes the remote and stern lord of Leptis Magna – but now, he was a frail, worn-out figure with a waxen pallour, struggling ever more weakly against the approaching end. From ashes we come, to ashes we return, Richard thought.

Soon, any day now, he would be duke. The thought closed off his throat, threatened to suffocate him. The anxiety even drowned out his grief. His father had been so strong, so wise, so experienced in both war and statecraft, so well-loved by his vassals and both feared and respected by his enemies. What did he have to match against that? Would he be able to control the vassals, to win their love, like his father had done, and to cow his enemies?

The chamber seemed to close in on Richard, threatened to stifle him. He feared that he would lose control in sight of all the gathered great barons. He summoned his last scraps of composure and strode from the room, head held high, gaze straight ahead. He mustn’t let them see his insecurity, his fear.

Once out in the courtyard and away from the gaze of anybody but a few servants, Richard slumped down heavily on a marble bench built against the wall. He forced himself to breathe deeply, told his heart to stop racing. The Lord will watch over me and guide me, he thought. The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside still waters. He restores…

The familiar words of the psalm soothed Richard’s nerves and he regained his composure and even some confidence. He reminded himself of the support and assistance arrayed around him. Count Charles had loved his father fiercely – he and the other vassals would be faithful to him out of respect to his father. And there was the regency council, men whom his father had trusted implicitly. And the King himself would prop him up against all opposition. If he didn’t intend to support him, why should he have betrothed his daughter to him only two months ago?

Back then, in the summer, Richard had been angry that his father had taken the King up on his offer without even asking him, but now he saw the wisdom of it. It didn’t matter if his second cousin Princess Eremberga was pretty, or likeable – she was the King’s daughter, and the King himself had offered her, and that meant an alliance with the crown, and security for the future of Leptis Magna and his ducal throne.

His nerves calmed, Richard got up and stepped back inside, to the side of his father’s deathbed.

* * *

A shout of triumph rose from Serlo’s lips, echoed by dozens of knights and sergeants all around him on the battlements. Down there in the valley, the Muhammadan host was fast retreating, almost fleeing the sight of the Norman banners clearing the pass and pouring down into the valley. Serlo and all his men had thought that they were done for, but the King had come to relieve them, to drive the besiegers off.

Next to Serlo, Hoel was shouting in exultation, taunting the fleeing Muhammadans and cheering the Norman host on. He turned to face Serlo, his hulking mass still splattered with gore from repelling this morning’s infidel assault. Unarticulated shouts of joy issuing from both their sore throats, the two friends gripped each others’ underarms, then fell into an embrace, hugging each other and padding their backs with a strength that might well have knocked them both to the ground, had they not been holding on to each other.

While he shouted triumph into Hoel’s ear, his squire’s reek of stale sweat, leather, blood and iron was in Serlo’s nose, the pungent odour of the fighting man in the field. It was good to see Hoel, to have his reassuring bulk near, to hear his coarse voice. Serlo had sorely missed his friend and companion of many years, missed the few but always fitting words the stolid giant used to make – friends like them needed no words to understand each other.

It was good to see Hoel again, very good.

But wait – wait! Why had he missed him? Why see him again?

Hold on, hold on. Something’s not right, something, somewhere …

Hoel. Hoel? Hoel? Wasn’t Hoel … dead?

But then so was Serlo.

[General_BT]

And so ends "the Greatest Norman."

[Enewald]

Serlo can't be dead!
A very confusing update!

[RossN]

Farewell Serlo.

What a life he lived though! Serlo was the last of that generation that can truly remember the time before the all powerful Kingdom of Naples which perhaps brought with it a certain humility that the later generation of Normans lack. He saw the end of Byzantine Italy and Arab Sicily, the collapse of a united Germany, the eclipse of the Cross in Spain and it's triumph in North Africa. Simply to have lived through such times is remarkable enough, but Serlo was more than just an observer. Even at the desperate moments of his life, and there have been a few he has kept his head and honour.

The only common virtue of the age he personified was bravery; his piety, wisdom and faithfulness were virtues that belonged to him alone when most others had abandoned them. He will be much missed.

[Qorten]

Ach, a sad day. I hope Serlo's son can live up to his fathers' past and eventually become Richard, instead of 'the son of...'.

[phargle]

Well, well, well.

That was a beautiful end to the duke's beautiful life. It wasn't just good for Serlo to see those old faces again, but good for us, the readers, to see them too: the Guiscard and Hoel especially stood out as figures that put a smile on my face with their re-entry to the story. The scene where Serlo's mind walks through his past with his three wives is touching, and - perhaps because of my own experiences - the scenes where he sees his father again and realizes only then how badly he misses him. . . those were strong. In seeing what Serlo dwells upon as he is dying, or even as he is dead, perhaps, there is a sense that he is drifting back not merely to his Norman roots but even further, and the way his death is prolonged in so many scenes, through so many images, calls to mind something said in the movie Gladiator, something that could, with relatively little changing, be so appropriate to Serlo's distant Viking soul:

If you find yourself alone, riding in the green fields with the sun on your face, do not be troubled. For you are in Elysium, and you're already dead!

Serlo should not be troubled, for he is in Valhalla.

[The_Archduke]

A sad day to see the end of the great Serlo. Hopefully Richard will live up to his glorious father.

[Scavenius]

Oh no the mighty hero are dead.
To bad Serlo did no die in battle, that would have been a perfect death for the mighty warrior he was.

[Clydwich]

Great update indeed.
And, as requested, I now ask you to tell us what did happen with the ransom story, and who did what....!

Apparantly Richard is more a son of his father. I find it strange that Blanche and Richard are not cooperating more on this. If they would join forces, they might be able to smoothen the transition from Serlo's rule to Richard knowing his trade....

[newtype0083]

Well that was both expected and unexpected. While we all knew Serlo was finally reaching the end of his life, your presentation of the whole affair certainly surprised me. I'm not one for literary criticism, so I'll leave it at that.

[RGB]

What a send-off!

Appropriate for the immensity of the man, of course...and I would echo those who said that he's more than just Serlo, in this update, but the model Norman of a time before the conquests and before the vast Neapolitan empire.